Sherlock Holmes and the Mad Fakir
by shedoc
Summary: Watson's past in the military comes back to haunt him. Holmes is at hand to help him, but who will help Holmes when he falls prey to the madman?
1. Ghosts in my sleep

Foreword

This is an account that I asked my friend Watson to jot down for me after the fact. I wanted a record of these events to be kept in with other publications that were of a sensitive nature. The following case is one of my most harrowing - and one of Watson's most brilliant hours. Watson has often humbled himself before the public in - I suspect - an effort to make my own observations more astounding than they were. This penchant for the sensational spoiled - to my mind - the tales, which should have been little more than treaties on the art of logical deductions. However, the tales had a market, and I cannot deny that they did my friend a service in the financial area.

The veracity of these events I leave for the reader to judge, as Watson sets before you the Adventure of the Mad Fakir.

0o0o0o0

I had been feeling rather melancholy of late; something I attributed to a combination of the miserable weather, and the approaching anniversary of Maiwand - that terrible battle where so many friends and comrades had lost their lives so valiantly. If Holmes was aware of my condition he kept his thoughts to himself; for which I was grateful.

It was a slack time for Holmes and he spent the days pouring over some newly acquired books - something to do with a recently excavated ruin and it's writings and treasures. I fancied it was the writing that interested him more than the treasures, as he was engaged in transcribing his notes each night, and comparing them to notes he had taken some years ago. I honestly could not take an interest, and to this day could not tell you what it was that he was working on (1).

I retired early that wet autumn evening, and lay for some time listening to the rain that beat heavily against my window before falling into a deep sleep.

I woke from uneasy dreams some hours later to find Holmes bending over me, a queer look in his eyes.

"What is it, old chap?" I asked, pushing up and reaching for my dressing gown. Holmes was still dressed; likely he had not yet gone to bed.

"You have a message," Holmes said, handing me the paper. I looked at the slip and leapt from the bed.

"Quick, Holmes!" I cried, "Get me a cab!"

Even as my friend headed for the door I was flinging aside my dressing gown and dressing, while checking that my bag had everything it would need. As I emerged Holmes was shrugging into his coat and holding mine.

"You read the message of course," I said, accepting his help with my coat and slapping my hat on as I bolted down the stairs.

"You must admit that at this hour of the night, messages are usually more in my domain than yours," Holmes said from behind me. In answer to the shrill whistle he had let off while upstairs a hansom plodded along the road. We ran to it and I directed it to the Charing Cross Hospital as I climbed in.

"A fiver for you if we make it in ten minutes!" I added as Holmes swung the door shut. The cabby whipped the horse up and we jolted along at a terrific pace.

"Who sent the message, Watson, and why is my presence also required?" Holmes asked me, "And why is it addressed to C from G?"

"The Matron of Charing Cross sent it," I replied, "C is my initial, and G is hers. As to your presence, I would imagine that a patient requires your help."

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

"What is F?" he added after a moment.

"A monster," I replied in a low voice, "That we should have killed when we had the chance. I will explain fully later, Holmes. I really can't tell you any more now anyway - it depends on what awaits us at the hospital."

I leaned forward to gauge our progress and heard Holmes voice behind me say gently,

"I'm sure he didn't suffer long."

I stiffened and avoided looking back; preferring to pretend that Holmes hadn't heard me calling to a ghost in my sleep.

0o0o0o0


	2. Merewether

The hospital was abuzz with activity; night orderlies and nurses crowding through the corridors. The night porter led us along a corridor that echoed with the shrieks of a man in mortal agony. Anstruther was standing outside a door, banging on it and calling for admittance. As we approached he turned and leapt down the hall towards us.

"Watson!" he cried, "What is going on?"

"I'll explain later, Anstruther," I replied, "Get me these drugs, there's a good chap, and I'll take care of it."

"How?" Anstruther asked tartly, waving the list I had scribbled as we hurried through the hospital, "Merewether has barricaded the door."

"It will open to me," I said firmly, "Hurry, man, or your patient will be lost."

Anstruther half turned to go as I knocked on the door, rapping twice, twice again and twice one last time. After a pause there was a dragging sound and a burly orderly opened the door, looked out and nodded.

"Come in," he mumbled, letting me pass. He blocked Holmes entry and slid the cabinet - made to hold extra linen in the ward - back across the door. The room was dimly lit, and two more orderlies bent over the bed, lending their aid to the slender woman who was attempting to calm her patient.

"Well, my girl?" I asked her, dropping my bag onto the empty bed next to them and throwing my hat down after it.

"Captain," said a familiar voice, "About time too."

"Anstruther's gone for the drugs. Hold him down while I examine him," I replied, and the four of them leant onto the patient.

As I had suspected he was in the grip of a powerful seizure caused by a drug from Afghanistan, used by the Fakirs in their ceremonies. The drugs of Western medicine could be used to counteract the effects until the seizure ran its course, but they had to be administered quickly, before the patient was too far-gone.

"Was he alone?" I asked as I determined the place where the drug had been introduced, "Do we know who he is?"

"Yes," Merewether panted as she struggled with a flailing arm, "His name is Charles Scott. He wasn't alone - his companion is in the morgue. I gave instructions that the body - there's no identification on it - was to be left until the police could examine it. You'd better send your friend down too."

Behind us Anstruther beat on the door again. I turned to answer it, pushing aside the bureau and taking the tray that Anstruther held.

"Take Holmes down to the morgue, and show him this man's companion. Holmes you'll need to find out who he is and warn his family. Also the family of Charles Scott; tell them beware of blow darts," I instructed hurriedly, and shut the door again.

0o0o0o0

I will not detail the ordeal we suffered to keep our patient alive. Ten weary hours after I arrived our patient fell into a deep sleep. I raised the lamp and nodded at Merewether.

"He'll make it," I sighed and she smiled.

"I'll get a nurse in to watch him. Thank you, gentlemen, for your help," she added to the orderlies and received smiles and nods.

"Always willing to help," said the one who'd admitted me. They unblocked the door and opened it.

"I see you are as popular as always," I murmured in a low voice to Merewether who smiled her charming smile and dropped a quick curtsy. I collected my bag and hat, and waved her to the door.

There was a constable at the door, standing with his hands behind his back, watching the orderlies walk tiredly down the corridor. A nurse stood beside him, and when Merewether emerged she smiled.

"Matron," she bobbed, "Dr Anstruther said you might want me to watch the patient."

Merewether nodded and sighed.

"Come in, Peters, and I'll tell you what you need to do for him. I'm sure the Doctor will be along presently to look him over. Until then ...," her voice was lost to me as she went back into the room.

"Dr Watson?" the constable asked, turning to me. I nodded in my turn.

"Am I under arrest?" I inquired, aware that Anstruther was quite capable of swearing out a warrant for my unusual behaviour.

"Bless you sir," the constable chuckled, "Not at all. Dr Anstruther and Mr. Holmes both left messages for you, and I'm to guard Mr. Scott."

"What are the messages?" I asked as Merewether re-emerged.

"Dr Anstruther wants to see you immediately for a full report, and Mr. Holmes will be waiting for you at Baker Street. I'd think he wants a report too, sir," the constable added confidentially. I nodded and put on my hat - not having taken off my coat since I arrived.

"Very well," I replied, "Thank you Constable. You'll be careful?"

"Mr. Holmes told me to watch out for blow darts," the constable said and took his place by the door. Merewether took my arm and we walked along the corridor. It was much calmer now our patient had been silenced.

"First, we'd better speak to Anstruther," I looked down at her fondly, "Are you off duty now, old girl?"

"Yes," she sighed, squeezing my arm and resting her head against my shoulder, "I was off duty when they brought that poor man in, and one of my nurses came to get me. As soon as I saw him I realized what was wrong, but I couldn't persuade Dr Anstruther of it. So I called for you."

We were in the main lobby now, and rather than walking all the way to Anstruthers office to report and then heading back again to reach the cabs we sent a messenger to Anstruther and sat waiting on one of the benches provided. Anstruther appeared in haste and made us wait while he looked in on Charles Scott.

"You can tell your tale at Baker Street," he said to us unexpectedly when he returned, "Save the repetition."

I wondered at his generosity until I saw the deep fatigue in Merewether's face, and later in my own mirror as I prepared to catch up on my sleep.

A nurse brought Merewether's coat and hat, and we ascended into a cab. The ride to my rooms in Baker Street was silent, and Merewether fell asleep, her head resting on my shoulder as it had so long ago during our final retreat in Afghanistan. I shook her arm gently as the cab pulled up and she got down stiffly. Mrs. Hudson met us in the corridor and was dispatched for tea and toast to keep us going.

0o0o0o0


	3. seeking madness

Holmes was waiting at the door, having heard our cab, and ushered Merewether to our deep visitors chair. I took my usual seat and Holmes waved Anstruther to his own, preferring to stand by the hearth. Outside, the wind howled and threw the rain at the windowpanes with determined fury.

"Did you find the other man's family?" Merewether asked the detective, when Mrs. Hudson had brought the tray.

"It was not difficult," he replied, his face grave, "I have met him."

"Oh no!" Merewether said sadly.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I murmured wearily, "Who was he?"

"Peter McCoy," Holmes stated, "He was a clerk in an office I once had cause to investigate."

"And his family? Did he have a family?" Merewether pressed.

"Yes," Holmes said, "A spinster sister and aging Father, both now grieving for his loss. What is all this about?"

Holmes voice was more than tinged with a mixture of impatience and curiosity, and I sighed.

"It has to do with the war we both fought in," I replied tiredly, gesturing to Merewether, "And a man who killed his own family, and many others."

"That is not a precise statement," Holmes said testily.

"Very well," Merewether began, "I will tell the first part, Captain."

I nodded at her.

"The story begins before we went to war, with a man named Stanley Porter. Mr. Porter was the youngest of nine children and lived outside a small village near Devonshire, with his parents and siblings, two uncles and their families and a spinster aunt. A total of nineteen people in all," she began. Holmes leaned against the mantle and regarded her with that hooded look I knew so well.

"Young Stanley was at the bottom of the pecking order in this family, by all accounts, and grew into a sullen resentful young man. His family's holdings were a little withdrawn from the village, and one winter, after a terrible storm, the family was not seen for some days. The village assumed they were snowed in and had no real concerns for them until five days after the initial storm a second one hit the village. When the family still hadn't been heard from a few of the villagers went to the holding to see that they were all right. The houses showed no sign of life, and when they broke into Stanley's house they found his family slaughtered in the kitchen. Of the nineteen in that family there was only one survivor - young Stanley."

"He was taken in and cared for, and as soon as he could he sold the family properties and left Devonshire. England had just gone to war and he took the Shilling. He was in Afghanistan for a year and a half before the first of the killings began. This time, however, he ran into bad luck, in the shape of the Captain and I - we caught him and he was shipped back to an asylum in England - though after this past night and day I doubt he's still there."

"And how did you know that it was Stanley Porter's work?" Anstruther asked impatiently, "After all, Charles Scott could have been ill from anything."

"Hardly," I took up the tale, "The trip abroad impressed Porter, and he changed his style of killing. At home he'd had to fake injuries and although in his confession he said he'd taken days to butcher his family..,"

Anstruther made a protesting noise, looking at Merewether.

"Don't be ridiculous," she waved a hand at him, "I've heard and seen worse things than this. Go on, Captain."

"Thank you my girl," I replied affectionately, "Porter said that it had been too tiring to attempt to repeat his crimes, and that he had found a better way from the Fakirs in Afghanistan. In fact, he would only answer to the title Fakir Porter."

"Why did you ask if the dead man had a family?" Anstruther pressed.

"In Afghanistan, Stanley was trying to kill his family again," Merewether said simply, "He would look for someone that bore a resemblance to a family member - physical or habitual - and then kill that person. The first death occurred on the fifth anniversary of the slaughter of his family, and the killings went on for several weeks - he said in his confession that it was harder to kill his family the second time around, because they were better at hiding. If the dead man had a family, then it's possible they too would be a target."

"Very well," Anstruther said and rose, "I'll take you back to the nurses quarters now, Matron," he added, and Merewether looked up at Holmes with a questioning gaze.

"You won't keep the Captain up too long?" she asked, and Holmes promised that he would see me to my bed soon. I stood up and Merewether put her arms around me, burying her face in my neck.

"Goodnight, my girl," I whispered, pulling her close, "I'll come see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight," her voice was muffled in my neck. When she looked up her eyes were moist.

"Promise me," she said urgently, and then shook her head with a grimace, "I'm too tired to make sense," she sighed and headed for the door. Anstruther gave me a startled look at what must have been unusual behaviour from his Matron, and followed her out. Holmes favoured me with a long look as he sat down and I sat opposite him, preparing for the grilling that would surely come.

"Where did you meet Matron Merewether?" was Holmes first question.

"She was a nurse in the Field Hospital that was my first assignment. Then, later, we met again, after Maiwand. It was while I was working in the Field Hospital that Porter killed those men. Maiwand sent me home, and Merewether too," I replied, pain stirring at the memories this line of questions was taking me through.

"Why do you think that the Fakir is loose now?" Holmes asked, "You haven't even checked at his asylum."

"He only killed five people in Afghanistan, but poisoned three more," I told my friend, "And he was caught by one of his intended victims. He has fourteen people to kill before he has recreated the slaughter of his family. The doctors that evaluated him said that he was obsessed with recreating that day - but due to his insanity he couldn't be punished."

"So he was committed," Holmes mused, "Where?"

I gave Holmes the name of the asylum that they had originally sent Porter to, adding that he could have been moved.

"There was a lot of interest in his case," I sighed, shaking my head in revulsion. Holmes looked at me for a moment and then nodded.

"Well, the McCoy's are safe enough for today and tonight, and Charles Scott too. Go to bed, Watson," Holmes ordered, "We will delve further into this problem tomorrow. I will contact the asylum to find out if Porter is still there."

I stood and bid Holmes a weary goodnight, though it was only late afternoon.

0o0o0o0

When I woke the next day the rain was still slashing down. By my rooms clock it was my usual waking hour, and I got up slowly, shaving off a day's growth and dressing with care, deliberately choosing a comfortable suit. From Holmes eye yesterday, I could perceive that there would be a lot of travelling today. He was already at the breakfast table when I came down, and greeted me with a hearty,

"Good morning, Watson!"

"Good morning, Holmes," I replied, and sat down to my plate. Mrs. Hudson had provided sausages and eggs this morning, as well as a great deal of toast.

"Holmes," I steeled myself, "Before we do anything today there's something I want to say."

"Of course, old chap," Holmes said, looking up from his paper and giving me his undivided attention.

"There are unpleasant memories here for me in this case - memories and dangers that I must face. You, however, do not. If you don't wish to investigate any further, you will turn down the case, won't you?" I stopped, hating to ask when I wanted to command.

"My dear Watson," Holmes murmured, surprised, "This case is interesting me. Perhaps it is out of my usual field, but it has its points. There is another reason you are asking this, I perceive. What is it you've not told me?"

"Nothing that will harm the case," I evaded smoothly, looking down at my plate.

"Who was the victim that caught Porter?" Holmes asked after a moment and I smiled.

"I was," I replied, looking up, "He missed with the poison and came at me with a knife. Merewether threw a tray at him and that stunned him long enough for me to disarm and restrain him."

Suddenly hungry, I took a bite of breakfast, and after a moment Holmes went back to his paper.

0o0o0o0

"Porter is not at the asylum any more," Holmes informed me as we rattled along in a cab, heading first for Charring Cross and then the train station.

"We already suspected that," I said indifferently.

"Once we have checked on your patient we will check on the asylum," Holmes added after a moment, "Are you armed Watson?"

"No," I looked my surprise, "Why would I be armed?"

"You fit on to Porter's list before," Holmes frowned, "Surely, that will not have changed."

"He is not a consistent man," I replied, "And I have changed since we last met. I doubt that I fit the role he once pegged out for me."

Holmes looked at me doubtfully, and I smiled.

"However, if it will make you feel better, I will go armed," I promised. The cab drew up outside the hospital and I got out, heading up the steps while Holmes settled the cabby.

We found Merewether walking briskly towards us as we approached Charles Scott's room. Her trim uniform and neatly starched apron and cap brought back memories and she smiled at me knowingly.

"Good morning, Captain, Mr. Holmes. Our patient had a quiet night and day. He should be waking soon," she said as we came to the door.

"Well met, my girl," I replied.

"He has not woken?" Holmes asked.

"No," Merewether opened the door. The constable loomed in the doorway and smiled when he saw who it was.

"Good morning, Matron," he tipped his head in a sort of bow.

"Good morning," she replied and he stepped aside. Merewether continued to answer Holmes question in a quiet voice as we drew up beside the man in the bed.

"It's normal for the patient to sleep for twenty four hours or more to recover from the final drugs we administered."

The man in the bed was pale, blonde and weedy. The room was well lit now, the danger from too much light passed with the final sleep.

"Did you have an opportunity to examine his clothes?" Merewether asked Holmes.

"He is a co-worker with the late Mr. McCoy," Holmes said, "And has no family. There was a small hole that would correlate with the dressing you have on his arm."

"Yes, the dart hit him there," I agreed, and straightened from my examination, "He'll do very nicely. Be sure to have some water on hand when he wakes, Nurse."

"Yes, Doctor," the nurse sitting by the door said. Merewether ran an eye over her - causing her cap to be straightened - and then led the way out.

"What news of Porter?" she asked in the corridor, heading us along at a brisk pace to the lobby.

"He escaped from the asylum two weeks ago," Holmes replied, "And there have been no other deaths in similar circumstances - the Yard confirmed that for me. Gregson will be meeting us at the station, and accompany us to the asylum this morning. He has asked particularly that you attend to this case, Watson."

I nodded without surprise - it was a logical request. After all, I was one of the few people to successfully thwart Porter in his murderous game.

"Be careful, Captain," Merewether warned. We had come to the lobby now, and she shook my hand.

"As always," I replied, "You be careful too."

"You know who Scott looks like, of course," Merewether said.

"Just like Private Hendon," I replied, "They could be twins, though I was too pre-occupied to notice it last time. Private Hendon," I turned to Holmes, "Was the first victim we pulled through."

"Then he has returned to where he began to fail," Holmes surmised, "A stickler for detail."

"But he can be led and trapped. Remember to be careful," Merewether warned again, "I have no wish to attend your funeral, Captain."

"You'll have no cause," I promised and Holmes shook Merewether's proffered hand.

0o0o0o0


	4. seeking asylum

In the cab, Holmes turned from his inspection of the passing streets and asked,

"Why does the Matron call you Captain? I understood that your rank upon leaving Afghanistan was Major."

"That was my rank when we first met(2)," I replied indifferently, "And I call her girl because I could not bring myself to call her by her proper name."

"Merewether?" Holmes asked, and I shook my head.

"I made a promise not to disclose it to anyone," I said. Holmes curiosity was piqued, but I could not alleviate it. We finished our journey in silence.

Gregson was waiting on the platform as we approached.

"The train will be here in a few minutes," he greeted us, "I wasn't sure you were going to make it."

"We were in no danger of missing it," Holmes said comfortably. Gregson was looking anxious and uncomfortable, darting glances around.

"What's wrong Inspector?" I asked bluntly, sharing a look with Holmes.

"I don't fancy this, Doctor, not at all," Gregson shook his head, "Asylums are not my idea of a pleasant place to visit."

"Neither do I think so," I replied, "But it must be done, if we are gain insight into Porters next move."

"Can't you think what he might be doing?" Gregson asked. Holmes uttered a short laugh.

"It's been some years since Watson last encountered the man," he chided, "Come now, Gregson, even you would have difficulty remembering the details we will need to catch this man. And he may well have changed some of his behaviour."

"That's as may be," Gregson said unhappily, "I don't like this at all."

"Do we know where Porter got the drug for his attacks?" I asked in the following silence.

"We have been checking all the burglaries of late where the victim had been to Afghanistan. So far we're out of luck," Gregson sighed.

"He wouldn't need to go that far," I shook my head, "He could easily get some of the drug in China Town."

"What!" Gregson exclaimed.

"Inspector," I frowned, "Do you mean to tell me that you never read the report I filed on Porter in Afghanistan? It tells you exactly what he would need to make up the drug he uses for killing, and the quickest antidote to it, as well as his modus operandi."

"I don't have access to military files," Gregson said stiffly, and I snorted, turned and headed for the telegraph office.

The train ride was silent. I had sent my cable to the Base that acted as Headquarters for the military medico's and could only hope that they would send the documents as quickly as possible. I had also written a list - from memory and probably incomplete - of the compounds used in the Fakirs drug.

Holmes had been a silent witness to all of this, and had favoured me with a long stare as the train rattled away from London and I settled to the journey. The weather was still foul - cold wind had added to the interminable rain, serving to make my leg ache. I was reliant on my stick to walk now, the pain was so great. (3)

At our disembarkation point, Homes hired a trap to take us to the asylum and I huddled between Holmes and Gregson miserably. The rain had stopped, but the wind cut at us like a knife, and the sky was oppressive. The asylum was situated on a hill, bare of gardens or trees, surrounded by a grim wall and even grimmer landscape. We were admitted at once, and the porter - a tall stoop shouldered man with yellow teeth and lank yellow hair - showed us along the dim corridor to the superintendents' office.

The superintendent's name was Edmonton, and he greeted us cheerfully, supplying hot tea and a comfortable chair for us as we entered. He was short and extremely thin, his skin stretched across his face tightly. His suit was worn, and his office cluttered with reports, books and journals.

"A terrible business," he fussed when we had introduced ourselves, "A terrible business indeed. He almost killed the orderly he attacked - and of course, once he had the orderly's keys it was a simple matter for him to get out. He is an exceptionally strong man - our last visiting physician said it was as if his madness gave him strength."

Edmonton's voice was surprisingly deep for one with such a slight build, and I had to restrain a smile at the incongruity of it.

"Why didn't you inform the police?" Gregson asked testily. The normal atmosphere of Edmonton's office had done nothing to set him at ease.

"We did at once, of course - and warned the locals to be on their guard. Then one of the farmers found a dead body at the edge of his property - the victim had been worried by scavengers, but had a tattoo similar to Porter's: we assumed it was him. I was shocked to learn he was alive and killing in London," Edmonton frowned, his smile vanishing. He got up from the chair he had perched on and stepped to his desk, pulling out a handful of files from the clutter, going over them.

"His records," Edmonton smiled again, handing them to Holmes, "I have copies here - everything is duplicated in case of fire or accident - so you can keep that."

"Had Porter shown any remorse?" I asked as Holmes flipped through the file.

"Well," Edmonton blew out his cheeks and sat down again, "That's how he got so close to the orderly. He had shown us that he was repentant of his crimes and become docile and obedient - it has been known to happen. As a reward he was moved to a freer environment and allowed to mix a little with the other inmates. Porter must have been acting, because according to what the orderly reported of Porter's conversation - he'd time to speak as he was beating the man so savagely - Porter was not at all repentant."

"I see," I replied, and looked across at Holmes.

"Can we see Porters cell?" Holmes requested. Edmonton shrugged.

"The high security cell is still much as it was left - and empty too, but Porters last cell has two inmates in it now - we're terribly crowded," Edmonton said, "After two weeks, there's probably not much to see."

"Then I would like to see the high security cell," Holmes announced, handing Gregson the file.

"I'll stay and examine this," Gregson decided and Edmonton favoured him with a knowing look.

"As you wish," Holmes said, "Come along Watson."

I stood and limped after the detective and the superintendent.

0o0o0o0

The cell was a tiny room, big enough for a bed and nothing else. There was a narrow space beside the bed, which allowed the occupant to sit on the floor. The linen and mattress had been removed, and Holmes tsked in annoyance.

Edmonton and I stood in the door and watched Holmes pore over the tiny space. There was no window, and it would have been very dark indeed but for the light from the grill above the door. A lamp burned outside it, giving the inmate light without giving him access to such a potentially dangerous weapon. Holmes was lying on the floor now, feeling under the bed and muttering to himself.

"Who stripped the bed?" he asked Edmonton, his voice somewhat muffled by the solid base upon which the mattress ordinarily rested.

"One of the orderlies. They wouldn't have conducted a search, though - that's done before the inmate is put back into the cell," Edmonton said, "So anything you find hasn't been touched."

"I see," Holmes mused, "And evidently they haven't moved the bed for some time."

He struck a match and held the tiny light under the bed.

"As you can see, it's bolted down," Edmonton replied patiently, glancing at me.

"Did you find anything, Holmes?" I asked, aware that the inmate of the cell behind us was leaning on the door and breathing heavily.

"Yes," Holmes said in a still voice. His hand shook and he doused the match.

"What's wrong?" I asked in alarm - it would take a great shock to upset his control like that.

"Edmonton - come and look," Holmes ordered getting up and handing his matches to the superintendent. Edmonton got down on the floor willingly, struck a match and plunged his arm and head beneath the bed.

"Good God!" he cried, starting so violently that he banged into the underside of the bed. He came out holding a hand to his forehead, and looking decidedly pale.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, bending to offer him my hand.

"No, no," he muttered distractedly. I relieved him of the matches and got down on the floor to take a look too.

"Watson," Holmes said sharply, bending over me, "You don't need to see ...,"

"Nonsense," I replied and struck the match. It was musty beneath the bed, and dust had collected in curious patterns. Then I saw what had alarmed my companions.

On the wall beneath the bed, hidden from prying eyes was my name, scratched hundreds of times, and accompanied with such vile threats as I have ever seen. Shock held me still for a moment as I gazed in horror at the wall, then, collecting myself, I extinguished the match and crawled out from under the bed. Holmes gave me his hand up, and looked at me anxiously.

"It appears," I said in a quiet voice, "That Porter holds a grudge."

"Good God man!" Edmonton cried, "He's sure to come after you!"

"I am quite capable of defending myself from Porters attack," I replied indifferently, "Shall we return to London, Holmes?"

Holmes favoured me with a long look - it seemed to be his day for them - and then nodded. I left the cell without a backward glance. Behind me Edmonton broke into furious whispered conversation with Holmes.

When we reached the office I told Gregson what we had seen and inquired if he was ready to leave. Holmes entered as Gregson collected our coats and accepted his absently.

"Take care, Dr Watson," Edmonton said anxiously and I smiled to reassure him.

"I will take every precaution," I promised, and he nodded, a little relieved.

0o0o0o0


	5. Dartful dodger

Holmes read Porter's file on the train back, and then handed it to me. Gregson had been relieved that the detective was leaving without interrogating the village, or the men who had found the body. The further away from the asylum we drew the brighter Gregson became.

From the file I could see that Porter had changed his pattern of behaviour very little. He was obsessive and delusional as well. He was determined to repeat the killing of his family; and had continued his slaughter from the first point of failure in Afghanistan. Again, the person's physical resemblance to a member of his family was not the only danger - it was their hobbies, interests and mannerisms that acted as an attraction. Charles Scott had been chosen for his looks, which were strikingly similar to that of Private Hendon - and Porters own dead younger brother. Peter McCoy had apparently been in the habit of turning his plate as he ate - a mannerism shared by the deranged man's cousin.

I pointed this out to Gregson, who nodded.

"How can we guard against a madman who could strike for any chance mannerism?" he groaned, "It will be impossible!"

"Read my report to the Army," I replied, "A copy is being sent to the Yard, but if it has not arrived I will attempt to locate a copy that I kept for myself."

"Why did you keep a copy?" Holmes asked, leaning forward in interest.

"The paperwork surrounding Porter's case had a disturbing tendency to disappear - he was something of an embarrassment to the Army," I replied, "It should be in my safe deposit box. I will go directly to my bank."

"Thank you Doctor," Gregson said, "I have to check in with my superiors and chase up that report with the Army. May I call on you both tomorrow? We will need to co-ordinate our plan if we are to catch Porter before he kills again."

Holmes arranged a time as the train pulled in and we alighted. The weather was as foul as ever, although it had been clearing around the asylum when we left. I sighed and renewed my grip on my cane as I followed Holmes to the cabs waiting outside the station. Gregson whistled one up with a shrill blast, and the first cab obediently moved forward.

As we waited, a peculiar and oddly familiar whistle sounded, and I whipped my cane forward, almost striking Gregson's face in my haste. A dart embedded itself in my cane, and I whirled, trying to track it's path. A clatter and shout, and Holmes ran past me, back towards the station. I hastened into the cab and bid the cabby to drive, leaving Gregson to follow Holmes.

Only when we were well away from the station did I give the cabby our address at Baker Street.

0o0o0o0

When I reached Baker Street I put my cane and it's deadly load on Holmes deal topped table. Then I selected Holmes heavy cane and retrieved my revolver. Armed and supported I left a note for Holmes and headed for my bank.

When I returned, Holmes was studying the cane closely - the dart still embedded in it.

"Any luck?" I inquired. He shook his head.

"You were quick, Watson. Gregson wouldn't have died, but he could have lost an eye," Holmes complimented me.

"Forgive me for not taking up the chase with you," I said, "But I thought it better to remove a target."

"Nothing to forgive," Holmes shook his head, "I would have told you to go if you hadn't already."

I nodded and handed Holmes the envelope I had unearthed.

"My notes," I murmured and put his stick away, shrugging out of my coat and transferring the revolver to my trouser pocket. Holmes got up and moved towards his chair, opened the envelope eagerly, and spilt its contents onto the low table by his chair. I selected a newspaper - there had been no time to read it this morning and sat opposite him, adjusting the revolver to be comfortable and in easy reach.

The agony columns were full of their usual bleating, but I persisted with them, to be finally rewarded with the notice: Captain Watson I am come for you, F. Billy appeared with the evening papers and I reached for them eagerly, finally unearthing the response to this threat: F, you'll have to get by me first, G. And further on: F, Friends of Captain Watson will not allow it, H.

"Any messages, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked as our landlady came in with coal for the fire. I hurried to relieve her of her burden, scolding her gently for carrying such a weight.

"There was one from a Matron Merewether," she said, "Billy was to hand it to you when he brought up the papers."

Holmes gave an exclamation and ferreted through the pile beside my chair. He ripped it open quickly and read the contents.

"The Matron desires to see us this evening," he announced, handing the note to me. It was addressed to us both, and contained Merewether's irrepressible humour. She was to arrive at eight, and it was seven thirty now.

"Perhaps, Mrs. Hudson, we could trouble you to set an extra place at the table," Holmes said, "The Matron will surely not have had time to eat."

"Certainly Mr. Holmes," beamed Mrs. Hudson, who greatly favoured her famous lodger. I began to clear away the mess of newspapers and sundry books that littered our sitting room.

"Did you find the threat?" Holmes asked as I gathered up the morning paper I had so hastily dropped.

"Yes, and your response," I replied, "It brings the possibility that the dart was meant for Gregson after all."

"How so?" Holmes asked, surprised, and I smiled sourly.

"He was not only travelling with me, he had the habit of whistling by putting fore finger and thumb into his mouth - he summoned the cab that way. Porters' eldest brother used to do that - he could be heard clear across the village on a still day, according to the reports. You may have made yourself a target, old man," I added ruefully.

"If that is so, then it will draw some of Porters attention from you. Did you warn Gregson?" Holmes persisted.

"I sent a messenger from my bank," I replied, "Whether Gregson chooses to believe me is another matter. Merewether also placed an advertisement - she has deliberately set herself up as a target too."

Holmes read the message that Merewether had placed in the agony column and then thrust it aside.

"We must catch the villain before he goes after her!" Holmes averred and turned back to my notes. I finished tidying the sitting room and returned to my chair to read one of the books I had come across.

0o0o0o0


	6. Taking the plunge

Merewether appeared punctually at eight and bent to kiss my cheek. Holmes took her cloak and bonnet and she looked around carefully.

"I see you've dug up your notes," she noted as she sat in our visitors' chair, "And that you've armed yourself. Would it have anything to do with today?"

"Yes," I replied and outlined the full day for her. She sat still, hands in her lap as I told her of our journey, the discovery beneath Porters bed - though I omitted the exact words under the bed, bad enough for us to have been subjected to them. Her hands clenched when I told her of the failed attack, and she shot an anxious look at Holmes. Before she could speak, Mrs. Hudson announced dinner and Holmes stood to usher Merewether down to the dining room and her chair.

"So," Merewether sighed, "It has begun. And if Porter is still as sharp as he was when we first encountered him, it will not be long before he discovers your address."

"Perhaps that would be for the best," I replied, "This is our territory - we can force a confrontation and trap him."

"And what about the danger you put Mrs. Hudson in?" Merewether protested. Holmes smiled.

"We will, of course, make sure that Mrs. Hudson and the servants are out of harms way. I perceive that a third victim was brought in today?" he inquired.

"No," Merewether frowned, "The only action that I know of by the Fakir was that failed dart attempt. Why do you ask?"

"You have been to the morgue today," Holmes said, indicating a mark upon her sleeve, "And after your duty for the day had ended."

"I was taking a shortcut," Merewether shrugged, with none of the usual squeamishness that her sex would have displayed, "There was ... an accident in the morgue and I went to help the victim until a doctor could arrive."

"Not another undead," I groaned, and she nodded, shooting a look at Holmes.

"A patient that had been declared dead revived in the morgue?" Holmes guessed and Merewether sighed.

"Shhh," she put a finger to her lips playfully, "No-one is supposed to know! It has happened before - the doctor responsible is under review."

"How did Watson know?" Holmes asked bluntly.

"The first victim was one of his patients that had been admitted to hospital," Merewether replied.

"Shock of my life," I said gruffly, "I went down to see my patient - to ascertain the cause of death - and they woke as I was pulling the sheet back."

Dinner - which had consisted of steaks and vegetables - was finished and Mrs. Hudson brought in her famous pudding and coffee. Merewether spent a few minutes complimenting our landlady on her cooking and then turned to Holmes.

"Now, Mr. Holmes," she murmured in her best Matrons voice, "How are we going to deal with the Captain and the Fakir?"

I choked on my coffee as Holmes replied in his brisk tone,

"That, Matron Merewether, is the problem. Neither is likely to cooperate."

"I say," I protested, "I'll cooperate in a sensible plan."

"Define sensible," Merewether retorted, "I know you, remember - you're quite the risk taker."

"Watson a risk taker?" Holmes asked, puzzled, "He's always bemoaning the risks I take."

"Maybe so," Merewether replied, "He has steadied under your influence, I'll grant you that, but he's not adverse to horrendous risks."

"Those," I said getting rather cross, "Were professional risks, and it was my judgement ..."

"Or lack of it," Merewether interjected.

"...that they were within acceptable limits," I finished, glaring at her. I was aware that Holmes was watching us with fascination. Merewether had thrown her napkin down beside her plate and we'd both moved our chairs a little way from the table, as if we would at any moment leap up.

"Limits that are set with no real standards in mind. It's a wonder you survived the war," Merewether retorted.

"Nonsense," I replied dismissively. Mrs. Hudson entered the dining room.

"There's a person to see you, Doctor," she announced, diverting us completely, "A young lady."

"Very well, Mrs. Hudson," I thanked her, and stood. Merewether jumped up too.

"Where are you going?" I asked her. Holmes looked bemused at our antics, but stood at Merewether's urging.

"With you," Merewether replied, "It could be Porter - he's dressed up before."

At this news Holmes eyes gleamed and they all accompanied me upstairs to the sitting room. The woman was standing by the hearth, looking towards the door as we entered. She seemed flustered by the crowd accompanying me, and I did my best to smile.

"I am Doctor Watson," I identified myself, stepping around Holmes towards our guest. She wore an old fur muffler and a long coat, which covered her dress entirely. She was heavily veiled and as we entered she coughed harshly, muffling the noise in her old fur muff.

"Oh doctor, you must come. We're all so ill and father has taken to his bed," her voice was harsh from the coughing and I started calculating what I would need for my bag as I moved closer and replied to her entreaty.

"Of course, Miss…" I trailed off to allow her to give her name, noticing that Holmes had glided forward with me. My patient gave my friend a nervous look.

"Catherine Peele," the voice was even hoarser and I froze. Catherine Peele was the name of Porter's slain Aunt, I remembered reading that in the files. Merewether gasped in recognition and I stepped back quickly, trying to step out of range. Realising that he had given himself away somehow, Porter yelled and whipped a knife from the muff, throwing the fur at my friend as he did. I leapt forward as Holmes batted the missile aside and deflected the blow aimed at Holmes, only to double over as Porter drove a fist into my stomach and headed for the door.

Holmes leapt forward with a shout, grappling for the knife as Mrs. Hudson ran down the stairs to fetch the police with the whistle she kept in the front hall. Porter's strength was too great, even for Holmes and I joined the fray as my friend was slammed into the sofa. Stunned, Holmes fell to the ground as I went for my gun, only to be deflected by Porter's swing with the knife. I managed to get in a few good blows before he again stunned me, sending me crashing onto my desk.

Holmes was still down on the floor and Porter leapt over him, headed for the door. I rolled up onto my knees going for the gun again as Merewether stepped into Porters path. She didn't speak as Porter bore down on her, but stooped and took their impact on her shoulders, her hands gripping around Porters knees.

The impact straightened her up and she took Porter with her, tipping him over her shoulder with that rare strength that saved our lives before.

Porter crashed to the floor and Merewether staggered to the side, spent, her dress torn. Holmes was up again and moving in on Porter, blocking my shot. I thrust my gun back in my pocket and joined the fray, hearing as I did Mrs. Hudson's police whistle and her cries in the street for help. Porter twisted and swore in our grip, managed to almost break free and threw Holmes and myself to the side, dangerously off balance near the window. Holmes tripped him as I staggered back from a savage blow and - alas for us - he came up with the knife. He lunged at Holmes and I made a final effort, throwing myself between my friend and the knife. The impact sent me staggering into the window of the sitting room. Our combined weight shattered the glass and I was falling before I even had time to cry out.

I woke for a brief moment as the surface I lay on jostled and shook. I was able to open my eyes and saw my friend and Merewether leaning over me - fear and concern written across their faces.

"Tell them," I husked to Merewether, "That it grated in."

"I will, Captain," she said gently, her hands like a vice at my shoulder, "See?" she shot at Holmes, "We can't pull the knife free."

"Be still, Watson," Holmes soothed as I moved my head to look at him.

"No regrets," I whispered urgently, feeling my strength go, "Get Porter."

"Watson!" Holmes shouted, but his voice and hands were a long way off.

0o0o0o0


	7. Fallen Angel

It was cool and dim in my room, and very peaceful - a pleasant change from the wagon. I felt very weak, but free of pain, and thirsty. I lifted my head to look around - noting as I did that my shoulder was remarkably free of pain considering the wound it had received. The nurse spotted my movement and hurried to my side. I managed to gasp out the word water, and she bustled off. After some confusion she returned with water and I sipped gratefully. I asked for a second glass, and she disappeared. Anstruther came in and said a few kind words, while examining me.

"Captain?" Merewether called as she pushed open the door. Anstruther stepped aside to let her take my hand and run her other over my arm lightly.

"Thank God," she breathed, "You had us worried, Captain."

"Sorry," I replied automatically, beginning to understand that it had been more than a few hours since the attack. I was unusually tired and could feel my energy waning again. Merewether said something about Holmes, but I was unable to stay awake long enough to make sense of it.

My friend was at my bedside when I next awoke. He was terribly pale, and seemed even thinner. He was leaning over me when I opened my eyes and started back in astonishment when he realised I was awake. I hate to be leaned over and stirred against the pillows a little.

"Watson," his voice shook for a moment, then he steadied, "How do you feel old chap?"

"Better," I replied, bewildered, "Did you get Porter?"

"He took the opportunity to escape," Holmes eyes were shadowed, "We were too concerned with you to detain him any longer. My God, when you went through that window…"

"I was lucky to miss the railings," I nodded, "It crossed my mind."

Holmes blanched in response and I looked at him uneasily.

"What is it, Holmes? Something is disturbing you."

"You've been in a stupor for the last three weeks," my friends hands were clenched into white knuckled fists, "Anstruther was not sure…you almost died."

"I see," I nodded, shocked. I had not realised that my injuries were that severe, though I was hardly in a position to evaluate them dispassionately. Merewether appeared, breaking the uncomfortable tête-à-tête that had my friend shifting so restlessly. She bore a tray with water and broth, and with Holmes help got me settled upright. The broth was not tasty, but I forced myself to eat it without assistance.

With some perseverance I managed to persuade Anstruther to release me from the hospital. I returned to Baker Street with Merewether as my nurse - she had taken a leave of absence from the hospital and Mrs Hudson had arranged a room for her. Several large men had also taken up residence in our sitting room, patrolling the house and streets at irregular intervals. Whenever I stirred they went with me, though I managed to escape them for short intervals.

Whilst regaining my strength I discovered that yet another victim had been claimed by Porter, a young streetwalker that tied her shawl in a particular way, much as his sister had. There had been a failed attack on an elderly banker who flourished his stick the way Porter's grandfather had, but the dart had unfortunately struck the man's granddaughter instead. She had survived - barely - and the family were being protected by the police. The streetwalker had not survived - she was found dead by the beat bobby who had noticed the dart mark in her neck. The police pathologists had confirmed that her death had been from poison and they'd isolated a few of the compounds in Porters mixture - enough to prove that he had killed the girl.

Holmes and Merewether colluded together over my convalescence, though Holmes was very rarely to be found in our rooms as my friend set a punishing schedule for himself in an effort to locate Porter's hideout. By now the man's likeness had been circulated all over London, but no one had seen him. The papers were full of the story - speculating wildly about where he would strike next.

A month after Porter's failed attack on Baker Street, the weather again turned wet and cold. My wound was healing well, and my strength was returning as well. With the weather as it was I knew that my less fortunate patients were being neglected - there were only a few doctors that treated the people in the slums and I was one of them. It had started after Holmes death at the Falls. My wife had died soon after Holmes and I had found my usual practice too slow to hold my attention. Rather than take up a new vice to fill my time, I had inquired at one of the charities that Mary had once worked for if they required the services of a doctor for some of their clients.

A week later I almost had more work than I could handle, and after my regular office hours I would find myself in the slums and back alleys - dealing with the illnesses and injuries I found there. When Holmes returned to London so sensationally I sold my practice at his request, though I could not find it in my heart to abandon my second practice. The charity helped to defray some of the costs of the medicines that I dispensed and I still saw some of my former, paying, patients at their request.

The weather reminded me of my poor practice and the illnesses that would undoubtedly be decimating the slums. I decided that while Merewether was occupied with the hospital - there was a new influx of nurses for her to oversee and assign, despite her official leave of absence - I would do the rounds of my practice. It would also allow me to ask a few questions of my own - my patients had confided in me before.

Thus I dressed for the cold weather that morning and gathered the things I would need for my rounds. My shoulder did still disturb me a little, but I would be able to manage a shorter set of rounds. Holmes was still indoors when I appeared that morning and took in the clothing I wore with an expression of disbelief.

"You cannot be thinking of going outside," he said firmly, while Merewether paused in collecting her cloak from the hooks by the door. I bristled at being treated as an invalid and frowned in both their directions.

"I have patients to tend to, Holmes," I replied, "In this weather they'll need the services of a doctor more than ever. You know I never sold my second practice, and there is no locum I can engage for it. They've been without for a month - I cannot delay any longer."

"Nonsense," Holmes snorted, "You'll kill yourself - it's all you can do to walk up and down the stairs every day."

His tone was dismissive and more than a little patronising and he wouldn't meet my eyes. I was fully aware that I had been quite sloth for a month, but his tone riled me. I dislike being underestimated, though it happened often in my work with the great detective. I had not his flair for detection, nor his intellect. That does not make me a dullard to be coddled and put aside. I fear that some of this was reflected in my tone when I replied to him.

"I am perfectly able to make my rounds today, Holmes. I do not require your permission, nor your approval," I stepped past and put the bag I was carrying on the floor, reaching for my coat and hat with my good arm. I was feeling a little shaky by now, though my anger and pride were standing me in good stead.

"At least take one of the men to help you," Merewether urged and I shook my head, shrugging the coat on with stiff movements.

"I don't need a keeper," I told her sharply, "Porter has not been sighted in this area since the attack - I'll be fine."

"If you won't take one of the men, then I will accompany you," Holmes declared and when he read the resistance in my face added, "Please John."

The shock of hearing my name forced me to look at my friend's anguished face more closely. Holmes and I never used each other's first name, having fallen into the more formal if old-fashioned habit of using each other's last name when speaking together. While our friendship was one of the closest I had ever know, something had always encouraged us to keep that little distance. Even when the American forger had shot me he had called me Watson. I turned, and saw that he had thrown on a coat, and was holding my stick. I smiled and shook my head.

"Not like that," I sighed, "Go and change - an itinerant worker or something. I usually hire someone to walk with me for safety's sake - but no one will believe a man in a coat like that is part of the neighbourhood. Perhaps we can find some clue to Porter's location if you are taken for a drifter. I'll wait here while you change."

Holmes disappeared rapidly and Merewether came out to my side.

"Sit down while you wait," she ordered, and sat beside me on the steps.

"When you were hurt, John," Merewether said in a low voice, "Sherlock was like a man possessed. He haunted the hospital like a spirit, and when he wasn't by your side, he was out on the streets in one guise or another, looking for Porter. He had a terrible shock, John. So did I."

"Thank you for taking care of him," I murmured, "I know how hard it must have been. But I cannot allow Porter to attack him or you again. Either way, this madness ends, as it should have in Afghanistan."

"All I ask is that you come back tonight, safe and unhurt," Merewether sighed, putting her arms around me, "Both of you. Promise."

"Done," I replied, leaning against her for a moment. There was a noise behind us, and Holmes gave me his arm to rise. He carried my bag and gave me my stick. He was wearing the clothes of a dockworker, and his pallor was enhanced by powder. I took his other arm and walked heavily down the stairs.

"We'll go out the back way," I instructed, "And your name is?"

"John," Holmes reported, "John Groom."

"A dock hand just arrived from ...," I prompted as we walked through Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. It was empty at this time of day, and Mrs. Hudson was out - probably completing her errands for the day, or visiting her friends.

"Dublin," John Groom said, a faint brogue creeping into his voice.

"We met at the alley that runs behind the Fallen Angel, you were scrounging for food," I told him, "And I'm to pay you when I'm done."

"Is that your usual arrangement?" Holmes asked, bracing me against the wind as we left the shelter of Mrs. Hudson's garden.

"Yes," I nodded, "It reduces temptation."

We made our slow way down the back street and hailed a cab. Phineaus Portney smiled down at us, and I smiled ruefully.

"Good afternoon, Phineaus," I said, "I want the Fallen Angel."

"That's a right dive, Doctor," Phineaus frowned, "I can recommend a better place if it's liquid refreshments you and your friend are after."

His voice contained a hostile tone, and his glare at John Groom illuminated the matter for me.

"This is John Groom, Phineaus," I introduced my friend, "And he came to tell me about some friends in need of a doctor."

Portney's scowl didn't lessen a mite.

"Well then, I'll take him to another doctor," Portney growled, "Can't you see the Doctor's too ill to stand let alone tend to the likes of your mates?" he added glaring openly at Groom. Groom looked up and smiled.

"Sure and he insisted on coming hisself," Groom replied and opened the door. He helped me up into the cab and then climbed up with me. We didn't move. Holmes exchanged looks with me and I grinned at him. I threw the trap door open and stuck my head out. A few murmured words in Portney's ear sufficed and the whip cracked even as I settled back. The ride was uncomfortable, and tiring. Grooms arm was a welcome bolster as I walked slowly past the Fallen Angel and into the alleys behind it.

0o0o0o0


	8. Missing In Action

An hour later I was treating my fourteenth patient; binding a burnt hand and listening to my patient's account of the strange doings in the mews near a ruined church - destroyed by an arsonists attack three months earlier.

"When the papers said that you'd near been killed there wasn't a body round 'ere that didn't go to the church and offer a prayer - ruin though it is. We should've known that you wouldn't ferget us," he said and I smiled, tying the bandage off.

"I do what I can," I replied, and he laughed.

"Good ole Doc," he said, "Marie's doin' well I 'eard, she's got a chance at a place in a 'otel kitchen."

"That is good news," I replied heavily and felt Groom's hand on my arm.

"You're fair washed out," he murmured, and my patient regarded him for a moment.

"Don' you worry, lad. Yer'll get yer money - the Doc always keeps 'is promises."

Groom released me and chuckled.

"Sure and I'm not worried," he said a faint tone of menace in his voice. I summoned a smile for my patient and nodded at the hand.

"That needs to be kept clean," I instructed, "How are things on the Bank?"

"They'll need you desperate bad, Doc, though I've not been there meself," my patient said, "'Ere, pay this cove off, and I'll take you down meself, gratis like."

"You're very kind, but I promised him a full afternoon of work," I replied. The doorway we were seated in was draughty, and my shoulder was beginning to ache.

"I'll just come along, then," my patient said with a mistrustful glance at Groom and took my bag, leaving Groom to assist me.

On the Bank - so named because it ran along the river - there were a number of hypothermia patients, many of them children. I organized some of the stronger adults to take a message to one of the shelters for help, and then moved further along. In many cases we were too late: there were several bodies that had been stripped of their meagre clothes and we saw two floating face down in the water. Groom stuck close to my side as the shelter workers arrived to take the sick children to a warm place. I knew that they would be back on the streets in days, ousted from overcrowded shelters and under funded homes. The rain, which had held off for a while, fell without warning, savagely beating against the ground. Groom repossessed my bag and headed me firmly up an alley, looking for a cab.

"I'm not done," I murmured faintly, "There are other places to check."

"No," Holmes voice said, and hailed a cab. It was no surprise to me that Portney descended from the box to help me up. I fished around and paid Groom for his work, before huddling back against the cushions. I knew that Groom would go check out the mews - we had heard several reports about it in the course of the afternoon - but I was too tired now to care.

0o0o0o0

I don't remember coming home, but when I woke I was in my chair by the fire, with Merewether curled up in Holmes' chair reading one of the many books that crowded the sitting room. There was a kettle sitting over Holmes unlit bunsen burner, and a tea tray by her elbow. There was a full glass of water on the table beside me and my reaching for it attracted her attention.

"And that is the last time you do that," Merewether scolded as I put the empty glass back. I nodded, still too tired to argue.

"Tea?" she asked and hopped up. I now spotted her trim boots sitting under the footstool and Merewether tipped a solemn wink at me as she padded over to the deal table and the kettle. The tea had a reviving effect and I felt able to travel to the bathroom and back. Holmes bodyguards entered the sitting room as I did and I returned their greetings cheerfully.

"Did you have any luck?" I asked them, assuming they had been on an errand for Holmes.

"Once you and Mr. Holmes split we lost him. He's a slippery cove," the shorter one said glumly, and Merewether chuckled. The clock on the mantle chimed six.

"That is one way of describing him," she agreed, "Gregson will be here soon. Did you find anything helpful?"

"Yes," I nodded after working out that she was speaking to me, "Holmes went to look over a lead. He should be back soon."

Merewether furnished me with a journal that had arrived in the mail and I settled into my chair to wait for the detective and Gregson.

0o0o0o0

Gregson arrived before Holmes, punctually at seven. Mrs. Hudson had been up and forced an early supper on me, despite my protests of wanting to wait for Holmes.

Gregson gave me a searching look and said bluntly,

"What have you been up to, then?" I smiled at him.

"I went looking for clues with Holmes," I replied, "We may have located a hideout - Holmes is checking it out now."

"And you neither thought to call me?" Gregson blustered, "Matron? What on earth were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I didn't know about this, as John was too tired to talk when he got back," Merewether snapped tartly, and fixed me with an angry glare.

"Holmes is better at looking quickly and quietly - and less likely to draw the attention a policeman would," I responded to Gregson without apology. My friend was apt to comment on the excitement that Scotland Yard stirred when it investigated anything. Merewether shook her head.

"He's late, too," she worried, looking up as the clock chimed the quarter hour.

"Mr. Holmes has been late before," Gregson muttered, shooting a look at me. I reddened - Holmes was also apt to forget his appointments in his quest for a suspect.

"Not without good reason, I'm sure," Merewether said staunchly, with a smile for me, "Sherlock has only one interest in this matter, Inspector - to catch Porter before any further deaths occur."

Her eyes slid to me, in an oblique reminder to Gregson of Holmes main motive.

"I'm sorry, I meant no criticism of Mr. Holmes. He's been a good friend to Scotland Yard and no mistake - always willing to give the credit to our officers," Gregson murmured, and Merewether smiled, granting forgiveness in the manner of the Queen. Her stockinged feet were tucked out of sight beneath her as she curled in Holmes chair again.

"Have there been any more victims?" she asked now, and I sat forward a little, feeling my strength returning slowly. Gregson shook his head.

"No, we've been lucky," he smiled, "I read your report, Doctor Watson; a neat piece of work it was, catching Porter like that."

"Luck more than anything else," I replied, "And it could have killed me; if Merewether wasn't so handy with a tray ..."

"Nonsense," she said briskly, "Lucky throw."

Gregson looked from one to the other of us, and smiled,

"You'll neither own that you laid a trap as cunning as one of Mr. Holmes?" he chuckled, "Ah well then."

Merewether twinkled a smile at me and I winked back at her.

"You look like old comrades, too," Gregson said and Merewether smiled.

"But we are," she replied, "After Maiwand, the Captain was shipped back to my post. We were overrun with wounded, and he rose from his stretcher to help. He operated in a tent for three hours before we were given word to ship everyone out - and in a hurry. He collapsed as we reached safety - he'd caught fever -and the decision was made in the end to send him home."

Gregson's eyes were wide, staring at me. I was aware that the two bodyguards had stopped their game of cards and were listening avidly.

"Worse wounded people than I was," I said gruffly, "I do what I can."

"And sent home a hero?" Merewether said, "As you were? They even gave you a medal."

"Which I've hidden deep in a dark hole," I retorted, "There's nothing heroic in doing the job you signed on for - tricky conditions or no."

"We've had this argument before," Merewether confided to Gregson.

"Surely you will acknowledge that what you did was above the call of duty, Doctor," Gregson protested, "I've seen how that old wound troubles you in bad weather. At the time it must have been crippling."

"I couldn't stand," I acknowledged, "But you don't need to stand for that kind of surgery. Merewether found a stool, normally used by the camp clerk. I had that. And Merewether doctored my leg for me, so it was no trouble."

"I had to change the dressings between patients," Merewether murmured, her eyes looking at the past, "And there were worse than he."

"We were ankle deep in blood, and when we reached safety, our clothes had stuck to our skin from the dried blood," she added. Gregson looked at me in horror and I reached out to touch Merewether's arm.

"It's all right, my girl, we're done with it now," I whispered and she blinked, coming back to the present with a rush. She smiled at Gregson to reassure him and stood.

"Some tea and a change in conversation is called for, I think," she said briskly. The clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour.

0o0o0o0

At eight thirty we knew that Holmes wasn't coming back and Gregson went to alert to police to keep a watch for Holmes in the slums. At nine Merewether insisted that I go to bed, promising to wake me as soon as Holmes returned. I lay awake until twelve, and then dressed again, returning to the sitting room. Merewether was asleep on the couch, a rug across her feet, her book fallen to the floor.

"James," I spoke her name gently, and she woke, blinking up at me.

"No," she said instantly, sitting up, "It's a trap."

I chuckled.

"I haven't said anything yet," I protested, but Merewether shook her head.

"When you call me James, you don't have to," she replied, "Wait another hour, please, he may come home soon."

"An hour," I agreed, looking up at the clock. Twenty restless minutes later a knock at the door brought the bodyguards to their feet. A whispered conference ensued through the barely opened door, and something was passed through. Merewether and I exchanged anxious glances as the door closed and swift feet ran down the stairs.

"What is it?" we asked simultaneously.

"A package delivered to you, Doc," the man responded, his eyes peering brightly above his hooked nose and bushy beard, "One of the lads has gone for the peelers."

"We'd best wait," I told Merewether and bent to examine the package. It was little more than a bundle wrapped in dirty, crumpled newspaper - yesterdays Herald - and tied with coarse string. I looked it over carefully, trying to ascertain if any of the dirt was recognizable, thereby giving us a clue as to where it had came from.

Gregson arrived ten minutes later, summoned by the beat man, and looked the parcel over too.

"Any clues as to where it might have come from?" he asked me. I smiled ruefully.

"His methods don't rub off, you know," I sighed, "For all my studying, all I can tell you is that the paper was likely pulled out of a rubbish bin by whoever wrapped it - and the bin was located near a hostel, there are food stains there, but not something that a restaurant would sell. The string is something that has been reused too - the ends are clean, as if they'd been trimmed, but the rest of it is frayed and in one spot, stained."

"That's pretty impressive, Doc," the bodyguard said, and Gregson nodded.

"Holmes would doubtless tell us more," I shrugged, "Such as where the hostel was and who had wrapped the parcel."

"I'll take a guess at that," Merewether announced, "I'm fairly sure that Porter knotted his boots like, that - the knot is unusual."

"You think so?" I mused as I cut the string well below the knot - if Holmes came home - and at the moment that seemed very unlikely - he would want to see it. Inside the parcel was the kerchief Holmes had knotted about his neck only that afternoon and a note written in the peculiar spiked hand Porter affected.

"Oh no," Merewether whispered, stroking the kerchief.

"'I have your friend,'" I read out, "'I will exchange him for you. Meet me at the London Bridge this morning at six. Come alone as you value his life.'"

"You're not going," Merewether declared promptly, "I made a solemn promise to Sherlock that if he got into trouble I would see that you were safe."

I shook my head, unsurprised that she had entered this pact with my friend.

"What do we do now?" the bodyguard demanded.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

"O'Dell," he replied.

"Well, O'Dell, I want all your men in here, now. We've got work to do if we're to get Holmes back," I told him. O'Dell nodded and hurried out, calling to his partner to keep an eye on me. Gregson shook his head.

"I can have the bridge surrounded," he said, "But using civilians? That's highly irregular. What do you have in mind, Doctor?"

"Getting Holmes back in one piece," I retorted, pushing aside my fear, "Its time to take a stand."

"I'll get a map," Merewether said, resigned. She rummaged through Holmes collection while I rang for Billy.

"I want you on hand for messages," I told our page and waved him to a seat by the hearth. Merewether padded back with a map and spread it before me, bending over it with absorption. Gregson shook his head.

"What do you plan to do, Doctor?" he despaired, "I don't follow you."

"I plan," I said firmly, "To trap Porter. I believe that he will come to the bridge without Holmes. We will enter into a losing battle, which will force Porter to flee the bridge and keep his word."

"But he promised to kill Mr. Holmes," Gregson protested.

"Yes, and to do that he must go to him. We will follow him, overpower him and liberate Holmes," I frowned, "But to do that we must plan out his routes of escape. Merewether, I need a paper and pencil," I requested, running a finger along one of the many lane ways that came out onto the main road leading to the bridge. When she had fetched the articles she sat down to pull on her boots.

"Billy," I called, "Go to this address and present this note; you will be given a package. Bring it straight back."

"Yes sir," Billy said in a small voice and ran from the room. Holmes small army - as Merewether had described them - crowded into the room and I called O'Dell over.

"This is what I plan to do," I began. Merewether touched my arm, and hurried away on an errand of her own - having divined what I intended to do.

0o0o0o0


	9. Target practice indoors

Portney's mare looked at us askance and Portney himself was not best pleased to be driving us about so early in the morning.

"You can't have rested," he complained as Gregson passed me into the cab.

"I didn't, but Holmes life is at stake now," I replied, "London Bridge, as you value his life."

The cab set off at a terrific pace, throwing us back against the cushions.

"I hope this works," I muttered to Merewether. She put her hand in mine and smiled.

"While you're no eccentric genius," she told me, "You are quite bright."

"Thank you. I think," I smiled and Gregson chuckled. We took a corner on two wheels and when we had righted ourselves he threw open the trap.

"Be careful, man," he exhorted Portney, whose only reply was to crack his whip over the mares' head. I checked my gun as we slowed to a halt, and Merewether checked hers too.

"Blank pistols," she shook her head, "We should be firing the real thing."

"Matron!" Gregson gasped, and Merewether's eyes flashed at him.

"Porter's killed enough of my friends, thank you. I don't want to run the risk that he will attempt it again in the future," she snapped. I put a hand on her knee.

"Take it easy," I recommended, "We mustn't fight among ourselves."

"Later then," she flashed at Gregson. I descended to the street, and blinked through the rain.

"We just don't cop a break," O'Dell said from the shadows, "That'll put a dampener on your chalk markings."

"It won't if your men are clever," I replied softly without looking around. Gregson and Merewether were hidden in the shadows of the cabs interior.

"Be ready," I said to Portney as the chimes from Big Ben sounded six times. I limped slowly onto the bridge, quiet at this time of the week, and headed for the centre.

"Porter!" I shouted as I went, "Come out!"

The rain hissed down, making visibility poor. I sighed and limped further down the bridge, hoping that there were no muggers around to complicate matters.

"Porter," I shouted into the wet morning, "Where are you?"

"Here," hissed a voice, and I turned. Porter stood in the lee of one of the supports. He was sheltered from attack by the weather and any confederates I may have placed.

"Where's Holmes?" I demanded, "I kept my word. What of yours?"

"Your word?" Porter shrieked. He began to harangue me - a long monologue about my treacherous treatment of him in Afghanistan. His eyes sparked queerly, and there was a quaver in his voice. The gloom lightened for a minute, and I realized that he wasn't wearing a coat. His skin was an unhealthy yellow, and his thinning hair was plastered down over his face. His bones protruded from that face in the manner of one very severely malnourished, indeed his body was an emaciated skeleton. His body was racked with tremors. With a shock I saw that he was sick, from a combination of poor living and hypothermia. The rain made it difficult to ascertain if there was sweat on his brow, but he certainly didn't seem to feel the needle cold rain as it battered down on us. I backed away as he drew out his pipe and prepared to fit a dart. Drawing my blank pistol I repeated my question.

"Where is Holmes?"

In reply he launched himself at me and I fired into the air, slipping on the wet stones and tumbling to one side, landing with a terrible jar.

In response to my signal Portney sent the mare forward at a cracking pace and Merewether and Gregson both leaned out of the cab, firing their blanks wildly. Porter snarled a curse, fired his dart at me and missed, before running to the edge of the bridge and shinning down a rope. I was well out of the mares' way as she slid to a halt and Gregson hauled me into the cab while Reilly - O'Dell's partner - called excitedly from his perch high above us,

"He's headed west!"

We swung around and Portney directed us off the bridge. We collected O'Dell and two of his men on the way as we headed for the last place Reilly had called as we left the bridge.

"Mark Brian's there," O'Dell informed us, "A good man, is Brian."

"Too handy with a knife for my liking," Gregson replied, and I shot him a silencing look.

"You promised immunity," Merewether reminded him, and he bowed his head to her.

"I remember," he replied stiffly and I bit my lip. The fall had jarred my shoulder, which was throbbing with a vengeance. It felt wet too, though I hoped that was more the result of falling into a puddle, than bleeding. The cab slowed and the two men we had picked up jumped down to lead the way. Our progress was much slower now as we hunted for chalk marks that pointed the way that Porter had followed. At times the cab stood still and O'Dell, Merewether and Gregson would get out to help search. I ground my teeth in frustration, knowing that in this I could only slow them down. Behind us Reilly and the men we had stationed on the other side of the bridge would be following in our tracks too, hurrying to catch us up for the final confrontation. I had swapped my blank pistol for my revolver, and clenched my hand around it now, willing our progress forward as only one who cannot affect it can.

"We've got him," a voice at the window hissed and with relief I saw Brian loom out of the rain.

"In there," he added quietly, "Not more than five minutes ago, he went in. You were quick."

"We had motivation," O'Dell said dryly and descended into the alley. I accepted his arm gratefully, and turned to look at the condemned building Brian had pointed to.

"Everyone on their toes," O'Dell said as Merewether hopped out.

"You'd best wait in the cab miss," Brian said to her.

"Nonsense," Merewether retorted and took off her cloak, revealing a pair of my trousers, "I'm not going to sit around and let him use Watson for target practice. You forget, gentlemen, that Porter and I have fought before."

The look on the men's faces was comical, but I was used to Merewether's way of thinking and just headed slowly towards the alley mouth.

"Where did he go in?" I asked Brian, recalling him to our mission.

"The main door, but there's a side entrance we can use. I checked it while I was waiting - he's not got it booby-trapped or anything," the man replied in his deep voice. I gestured for Brian to lead on, and we followed him into the building as the rain finally slowed.

0o0o0o0

It was dark in the corridor Brian had led us to. We stood still a moment, waiting for our eyes to adjust, and listening for any movement. Merewether stood beside me, her head turning from side to side. A footstep scraped above us, and we all looked up instinctively.

"Find the stairs," I whispered to Merewether, and she padded past Brian silently, evading his clutching hand easily and disappearing from sight. I followed her slowly, trying to make no noise as I limped along. She was back in moments and took my hand.

"This way," she whispered, "Just around the corner."

The first floor was better lit, but terribly dingy. The floor had holes in it, and the wallpaper was trailing off the walls. The ceiling sagged in a few places and the end wall was streaming with water that leaked from the roof. A low laugh sounded ahead of us and we froze, waiting until we were sure that Porter hadn't noticed us before moving on. The laugh sounded again, and this time we could hear his voice indistinctly too. He appeared to be taunting his captive. We came to the last door in the hallway and could hear him clearly now.

"But he elected to save his own life, rather than yours. I'm a marvellous shot, am I not, Mr. Holmes? If you were standing here, you'd see a perfect outline of yourself on the wall. Enough games, though. This time I'll not miss you. Don't worry, your friend will die too, and his death will be infinitely slower than yours. Goodbye Mr. Holmes."

"Not so fast, Porter," I said coldly, and stepped squarely into the doorway. Porter gave a terrific start of surprise, and Holmes groaned my name.

"Well well," Porter snarled and fired his dart. It struck me in the centre of the chest and lodged there. There was no pain and I smiled at Porter.

"Well well," I echoed and stepped aside. Gregson, O'Dell and Brian bolted past me, launching themselves at Porter before he could reload. Merewether and I headed for the detective, shackled to an exposed beam overhead. Porter had been firing darts at Holmes, and outlined him against the wall perfectly. Merewether supported Holmes and I drew a scalpel from my pocket to sever the cords that had cut so cruelly into my friends' wrists. There was a bloody gash on his forehead and from the marks on Holmes shirt, he'd been beaten about the body too. The scuffle behind us increased as Porter began to shout imprecations at his attackers. I helped Merewether pull Holmes away from the wall and he tried to stand, the struggle turning us to face Porter. Gregson had the derbies on one of the madman's wrists and was trying to secure the other. O'Dell went down when Porter kicked him, and I saw a flash of metal in Brian's hand as Porter broke free of Gregson's grip. I restrained an impulse to cry out a warning as the metal flashed again. Porter sank to the floor with the knife embedded in his chest to the hilt.

Brian looked over at me and nodded.

"That ends it," he said heavily, adding, "The whore was my sister."

With that he left the room, clattering down the stairs and into the night. Gregson came to support Holmes and I went to check on O'Dell, pulling the dart from my chest as I did.

0o0o0o0


	10. Epilogue

O'Dell had been tended to and was on his way home under Portney's care. I had washed Holmes wounds and bound them up gently. The detective was seated in his favourite chair, a large brandy in one hand, and his cherry wood in the other. He had watched Merewether help me undress, removing the canvas jacket she had made as a protection against darts. Gregson had remained behind to secure the scene, and report to his superiors. My wound had bled a little, though it was half healed now. She had redressed it and helped me don a clean shirt and my dressing gown.

"It was self defence, of course," she said, "Gregson won't arrest Mr. Brian, will he?"

"That is how I'll testify," I agreed, "If it ever goes to court."

"When did you make this?" Holmes asked, fingering the canvas undershirt.

"When the captain was in hospital. It was supposed to be for you," Merewether sighed, "But you never got to try it."

She had drawn the rug across her legs and was seated on our footstool, leaning against the arm of my chair.

"You gave me a fright, Watson," Holmes chuckled weakly, his face still unnaturally pale, "I thought that Porter had killed you with that dart."

"Gregson's plan came off well," he added in a different voice, "I must remember to congratulate him."

Merewether and I exchanged a smile and she sighed, leaning her head against my arm.

"I imagine he'll be here soon," I said in general and leaned back, the adrenaline that had sustained me now spent.

"How did Porter catch you?" Merewether asked.

"By a stupid accident," Holmes frowned, indicating the gash I had bound up, "The interior of the ruined church is extremely slippery. I fell and hit my head. When I came to myself Porter had tied me to the rafters."

"Dealings with Porter do tend to come about like that," I sighed, "Luck seems to follow him around in mundane matters and then desert him at a crucial moment."

"Fatally, this time," Merewether mused, and we shared a long look. Holmes nodded.

"I was never so glad to see you in my life as I was when you stepped through that door, Watson," he told me, "Porter had been teasing me for hours, firing his darts at my arms. At one stage he pinned me to the wall entirely, then he would pull the darts free. He told me as he left that he was going to kill you. I tried to escape then, but his knots were too efficient."

"Well, it's over now," I said thankfully. Gregson's footsteps sounded on the landing, and his greeting was suitably relieved.

"You won't prosecute Mr. Brian, will you?" Merewether asked immediately.

"No, Brian is safe for this crime," was Gregson's tired response, "But Matron, the man is a killer."

"I have no doubt," Merewether replied, "But this was a service to society, more than a murder, and self defence besides."

Gregson shook his head at her peculiar morals and abandoned the topic.

"Well, Gregson," Holmes said, "Tell me how you came to track Porter."

"The Doctor here, planned it," Gregson frowned, in surprise, gesturing to me, "Hasn't he told you?"

"We were waiting until you arrived; get the whole tale out at once," Merewether added, and Holmes shot a look at me.

"I never get your limits, Watson," he murmured, "Tell on, old chap."

I began to tell my tale, and outside, the sun broke through the clouds, sending watery rays through the window.

-end-

0o0o0o0

1: It is a pity that Watson was not more precise about the work Holmes had in hand - this is surely a reference to one of the lost monographs.

2: Unfortunately the official records are incomplete, and Major Watson's records have been lost.

3: The nature of Watson's wounds have been much debated, elsewhere. Suffice it to say that Watson's main complaint seems to be caused by a leg wound that he suffered during the war.

4: This is certainly a reference to the fight that Watson and Merewether were involved in to subdue Porter the first time.


End file.
